Amor que Poena
by AC Thorn
Summary: "Her first word is 'why', and in hindsight, it is rather fitting." Sometimes love is not always meant to be. Three-shot. Nancy/Percy. Slight AU. R&R.
1. I: Losses and Gains

_**Amor que Poena**_

_By Acacia Thorn_

_To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. – Anonymous _

_**I

* * *

**_

Her first word is "why", and in hindsight, it is rather fitting. Though when she says it, it is not a chaste question, it is a declaration of fact.

Perhaps this is why, when she is seven and at her father's funeral, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is: "Why."

She supposes she has been born into a normal family, just her with her mom and dad, but she knows that she will never be like the kids from school, the ones that are rich and loved and spoiled.

Her father had been everything. When she was younger, he would take her to the beaches near their home, and they would just walk along the shore and talk.

Often enough, she would stop and admire the sea. The sea is always glittering, always crystal-like. She thinks of the ocean to be blue, but then again, are _seas_ and _oceans_ the same thing? The sea sparkles green while she is sure that the ocean glimmers blue.

The sea gave her a warm, homey feeling, and over the years, the sea is a fragile painting in her mind, imprinted there, her only true memory of her father—and it hurts.

Still, she stays by the sea; maybe because it was the one place she and her father could be alone, in solitude, with no disturbances or troubles other than themselves.

For it is perfect along the shore, and she thinks that that is why she spends almost all of her time there. Her family lives very close to the beach, and she knows that their original plans of moving would never be carried out, not now, not after her dad's death. So she has the sea to herself, and she is the picture of perfection, looking out at the horizon, though nobody can mistake the fat diamond of a tear that lingers on her cheek.

* * *

_Where is mommy?_ The question has been haunting her mind for weeks now, and she is thoroughly frightened. She hasn't had much time to worry about it, but now that she is alone, she can think.

They had been moving her around a lot, and she doesn't pay attention too much, because as soon as she memorizes one place they whisk her off to another. It's a lost cause, she thinks, and she'd rather mull over other matters.

There are only two facts that exist in her mind—that her father is dead, and he won't ever be coming back, and her mother is gone and doesn't want to come back. She knows this for sure, and despite the onslaught of pain and misery the thought brings, she refuses to cry more than she has. If she has to cry, it will be for more than that, and it will all happen at once, so she will never have to cry again.

She is eight years old when she makes this compromise.

* * *

She officially runs away not long after. She doesn't run away because she feels neglected, but simply because she _can_, and no one is looking out for her. She can finally be free.

But then, of course, she doesn't know where to go—so where else but Central Park?

The air is misty and cold when she first steps out, and mentally she reprimands herself for not bringing a jacket. As the frost bites at her cheeks, she sighs, watching the tendrils of white breath snake out into the night. It is cold, but not so much that she has to go back to her temporary home, the one she is staying in until they find her mother.

Frankly, she does not want to find her mother. She doesn't want her because she left her, and she knows that if her mother wanted her back, she would come back. It did not seem as if she were coming back, so the girl refused to associate herself with _that woman_ anymore. So far, it is not working.

Her mother is the only thing people could identify her by. _"Oh, that's Mandy's daughter, the poor thing,"_ they would say, or sometimes even _"Oh, you look so much like Mandy!"_ She is _not_ her mother, she never _would be_ her mother, she didn't want to _know_ her mother, and yet this is what she faces every day. She is Nancy, not Mandy, and it will always be that way, no matter what.

Blinking, she returns herself to her surroundings. Central Park looks eerily beautiful at night, she decides. Moonlight paints the petals of flowers faint silver, and distant breezes ripple the grass. Shadows squeeze themselves into every available corner, leaking into the world from the coal sky, and the wind whisks away the few noises made by small animals. But this is New York, after all, and so it is never entirely calm.

"You lookin' for sum'un?" a slurred, drunken voice asks. The girl's eyes snap up to meet the stranger's, and with a shocking, sad jolt, she realizes that this is no stranger at all.

"Mom?" she whispers, the word leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. "Is that you?"

It certainly is her mother, she knows that much. But her hair is sticking up in odd angles and her clothing looks dirty and is ripped in several places, and so she is wishing that this _isn't_ her mother, though she knows that her wish will not come true.

"Ain't no 'Mom' w'ere I'm a-comin' from," she slurs, a wispy smile curling her lips. "Bu' ya do look famil'r."

Her heart lifts slightly, though not much, because at least her mother could tell that much.

"I'm your daughter," she says slowly, cautiously, watching her mother's ungraceful moves.

"Are ya, now? Gots me lots of those." Her grin becomes more pronounced, and Nancy frowns. Is it just the alcohol talking, or is her mother telling the truth?

"What do you mean?" she asks, and randomly she wonders why her voice is so hushed. She has the freedom to speak at whatever volume she pleases. Perhaps she is unable to make her voice any more audible than that.

"Been here 'n' there, drunk stuff, did some bad things." She is too caught up in her mother's words to realize that she no longer sounds drunk.

"What do you mean?" she repeats, eyes wide and round.

"Nancy." Her mother's voice is strong—determined. "I messed up."

"Everyone messes up," she says, childishly perhaps.

Her mother shook her head impatiently. "That's not what I mean. I've done bad things. I left you. And…and I did a lot of things I'm not proud of."

She is more confused than ever. "What are you talking about?"

Her mother sighs, seeming resigned. "I'm not good for you, Nancy. I can't keep lying to you."

This is not something one explains to a child, but her mother is doing it anyway. And the girl, she is not getting a word of it.

"What?" she asks, lips trembling. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to!" her mother snaps, and she recoils in surprise. "Damnit, just listen to me, you ungrateful brat! Just—just leave me _alone_! Get the hell away from me!"

She is crying, and her mother is crying—harsh, shuddery sobs that rack down her spine and echo in the stillness. She, herself, is only hiccupping, but she is still crying, even after she promised herself not to.

"But I—"

"No, Nancy! Go away! Leave me! _Now!_"

Nose running and tears spilling from her eyes, she runs away, into the dark, back to the place she must now call home.

* * *

_Yancy Academy_.

Is it right to hate it for no particular reason? She thinks so. With its dull, washed out signs and faded bricks, Yancy is not a place she wants to spend the rest of her life at.

Everything would be different. She would be different. She would be better, improved.

Suddenly, Yancy didn't seem so bad, simply because _everything would be different_. No more neglect, no more hurt. She could start fresh here.

And as she waves goodbye to the family that had provided her with a home for the past three months, she cannot wipe away the smug grin that has found its way onto her face.

* * *

**A/N: **_…I am a terrible, terrible person for poisoning your minds with this. I can't write romance. _At all._ But this chapter wasn't romance. Still, I am sorry for the short chapter. They will get longer…actually, no, only the last part is somewhat long…huh. Anyway…R&R, por favor…CC is loved, flames are expected…hm. Also, this is AU in the sense that Yancy isn't _only_ for troubled children, and that Nancy is actually a mentally stable child (she's not a kleptomaniac), and the AU applies to the last part of the fic as well.__  
_


	2. II: Heartbreak

_**Amor que Poena**_

_By Acacia Thorn_

_It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace. – George Bernard Shaw_

_**II

* * *

**_

She reads the sign once, twice—yet she still cannot make sense of it. She stands there for what seems like an eternity before it dawns on her that she is supposed to go inside.

The first steps are the hardest, since she knows that once she goes inside she's stripping away her own identity. She's going to start fresh, and even though she can't forget, she might as well try.

When she makes it indoors, the faculty welcomes her warmly and is friendly with her. They tell her that she'll have lots of fun and make tons of friends. She is only nine, and she believes them. She believes that nothing will harm her, here at Yancy Academy, where she is bound to stay until she goes to college—_if_ she goes to college, that is.

They make sure she is well and prepared, and then she is left alone with a secretary.

"You're Nancy, right?" the secretary asks.

She manages to produce a shaky smile, but it feels false on her face. "Yes," she says, trying to be cheerful. This _is_ her new life, after all. "That's me."

The secretary nods and points to the far corner of the office. She turns to look, and even though she is only nine, her breath catches and she feels the blood rushing up to her face. Her cheeks are clashing with her hair horribly, but the secretary doesn't seem to notice.

"That's Tristan—he will be your 'buddy' for the day, okay? He can show you around the building."

"Are we in the same class?" she asks before she can stop herself. She can feel her cheeks heating up even more, if that is possible.

The secretary laughs. "Yes, he is. Now, why don't you two get going?"

She nods, trying to calm herself down, and wordlessly she walks out into the hall with who she thinks is the most beautiful boy in the world.

* * *

She doesn't want to be a bully, and in all honesty, she doesn't know that she _is_ a bully. She's just doing whatever pops into her mind, being reckless and wild, and she doesn't know how to control it—not that she _wants_ to control it.

Yet, she doesn't understand the expression on Tristan's face when he breaks her supposedly invincible heart.

He doesn't scream the words like she expects; he doesn't say the words the same way they do in movies.

When he does say them, it's sunny outside, and she is near the art supplies in the classroom. He sidles up next to her, and she smiles, not trusting herself to say any more. When he doesn't smile back, however, she is worried.

She and Tristan aren't good friends; any smart observer would've seen that he goes out of his way to ignore her and that she does not bother to make her attraction to him subtle. She, however, sees none of this, instead dwelling in her own thoughts and dreams.

There is an odd look in his eyes, something like determination, but she is too busy wishing for a smile to appear on his face to notice this.

He whispers the words quickly, cuttingly, and his voice is brutal.

"_I _hate_ you."

* * *

_

She is eleven when she meets him.

It is nearing the beginning of the school year at lunchtime, and she is looking through a sea of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, for her friends.

Finally she spots them sitting under a large tree, laughing as they cool in the shade while everyone else bakes in the heat. Wiping some sweat off her brow, she began to run over to them.

She is stopped halfway there by someone she doesn't recognize, and just as a snide remark is about to roll off of her tongue, she looks at his eyes—blue, a bright blue, just as Tristan's were. The insult is caught in her mouth, and all she can do is gape.

"Uh, hi," he says nervously, hands shaking and cheeks pink. "I'm new around here, and uh, I was wondering if, maybe, I could, uh, sit with you, and, uh, yeah, I—"

She cuts him off. "I'm Nancy." She smiles sweetly at him, and he manages to smile back, though his is embarrassed and nervous.

"I'm Alex," he mumbles, and she has to strain to hear him.

"Nice to meet you." She doesn't know where all this sweetness is coming from, but it's helping her so far. "Do you want to sit with us?" She points to where her friends are stationed, seeming oblivious to their missing friend.

At first he looks at her oddly, as if she has three eyeballs and two heads, but then he nods and says, "Sure."

She is still eleven when she suffers, once more, from the mystery known as heartbreak.

She and Alex are good friends, maybe even best friends. She trusts him and he trusts her. He knows that soft side to her, the one that doesn't bully people constantly and is shy and awkward. She thinks that this side of her is the only thing remaining from her so-called previous life.

"I love you."

Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she feels a funny tingling in her chest. Her throat is thick, and she doesn't know how to answer.

A part of her is screaming those same three words, but another, smaller part is holding her back. She takes a moment to listen to it.

They are only children, after all, and he doesn't know what those words mean. He doesn't know that he is essentially vowing something to her. To him, they are just three more words that escape his lips, and they come easily, with no hesitations. They mean nothing.

Instead she is quiet, and she tries to show that she is just as happy as him without saying the words, but the diminished look in his eyes says enough. He knows that she is not going to say the words back, she can tell, and it hurts to see him like that, but not enough to make her change her mind.

The next morning, she wants to reconcile with him, and despite her efforts, she cannot find him. Asking around, she gets her answer from Brittany, the daughter of the principal.

"Oh, he moved away."

Brittany says it so casually, like it doesn't affect her in the least. _It probably doesn't,_ she admits, but she is too busy panicking to dwell on it.

By nightfall, she realizes that those words were not a promise, but a goodbye.

* * *

It is not lust at first sight, when she first meets the boy. He's rather annoying, actually, and impulsive, and she views him as a threat to her pride and nothing more. They squabble and scream—both lost in their own world, unaware of the hinting smiles that play on the faces of bystanders.

They are young and impudent and oblivious, and that seems to be their downfall. For there is a look of ache and puzzlement on his face whenever she shows him even the slightest bit of kindness, and there is always a look of deep regret on her face when she insults him, and there is a dark, whiplashing agony that plays across her features whenever he manages to snap back. Neither notice the other, yet they're so focused on each other it is agonizing. They are friends yet they are enemies, and that friendship is held together by their similarities. They are both brash, both ignorant, both lost. But it is impossible to rush these things, and so they stay in their universe, alone with only each other.

She is unsure, when she hits the fountain water, why her chest aches and why her eyes are burning with tears she refuses to shed. She isn't sure why she's screaming at him, because she knows that he didn't do it from the look of utter disbelief on his face, but there is no other thing to do. And she can't quite get his hurt expression out of her head, but she supposes that she is being too soft and mentions this to no one. As time goes on, she nearly forgets about him.

_Nearly_.

For there are two things she cannot get out of her mind, two things that she knows will haunt her for as long as she lived.

His eyes—his eyes were the color of the ocean, the exact shade of reminiscent green. That is one unforgettable memory of hers.

The other is not so much his fault, but she associates it with him anyway. A letter, _the_ letter—the short, terse letter that ends any hope she has, the one that is plain, ordinary, yet so precious.

For it is that letter that tells her that her mother is dead, gone, and though she hadn't been a major role in the girl's life, it still feels like a chunk of her heart is missing—what is left of her heart, that is.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ _There. Some romance. Go crazy. Sue me. I do not care. :3 Same as always…R&R. This gets tiresome to repeat._


	3. III: Reunion

**A/N: **_Well…thanks to __**HallowedHallsOfWriting **__(aka Juliet ^^) for betaing this and saying this was good despite its major suckism. :3

* * *

_

_**Amor que Poena**_

_By Acacia Thorn_

_Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection. – Arthur Schopenhauer_

_**III

* * *

**_

She doesn't know what she's doing anymore, if she ever did. She tries, desperately, perhaps, to show others that she's fine and she's strong and she's the same as always, but she can feel herself breaking, crumbling from the pressure—and she's sure that everyone else can see it too.

Pain is not something she is familiar with. She's supposed to be the one giving pain, not receiving it. Despite that, she feels pain. Sometimes it burns, but other times it doesn't really feel like anything. She knows that she should hurt when she doesn't, she _knows_, but she _can't_ hurt, because she's simply not used to it. She doesn't know what it _should_ feel like.

She sighs. Tracing circles on the sheets, she wishes something would replace the emptiness that lives in her middle—but what? All her life, she's only felt two emotions, satisfaction and anger, clear as day, but the rest are all muddled and foggy and she can't pick them apart. Sometimes she wonders why this is so, but the thought is easily dismissed. She knows _why_ she feels her two emotions and she knows how it happens, so what is left to wonder?

She's feels satisfaction because, quite frankly, it is the closest thing to happiness she can get. She lives in a world where poverty haunts the shadows and arrogance rules the light, but there is no middle ground, and therefore, there is no such thing as true happiness. There's always something wrong.

Then, she feels anger for the rash, brusque reason that there is nothing else to feel. Sadness isn't an option, since despair is overrated. Nearly half of the kids in Yancy had suffered through depression, and she is _not_ one of them. She would never, _ever_ be one of them.

But pain…she doesn't even consider it. Pain isn't something she expects to encounter, simply because she thinks that causing pain makes you immune to it—but it doesn't. She supposes that learning the hard way is better than not learning at all, and sometimes she wishes that she didn't have to learn, but she knows that, despite the part of her screaming "It isn't so!", it is bound to happen.

She is sick and tired of analyzing her emotions when she admits that. She is eighteen now, and what use is it to mourn over the past?

Suddenly she has the urge to cry, but she wastes too many tears on lost causes.

Because in reality, she is clinging to memories that don't exist, that should never exist. She doesn't want to admit this, though the truth of it all is a permanent scar in her mind. She is living in her own fantasies, and it's time she steps out into the real world, where harsh brutality leaves her crazed and wild. But she isn't sure if she's ready to go back, where she hides her feelings behind sneers and insists that she is perfectly fine.

She now knows what pain feels like, but she isn't sure what it is. Is it just a name given to that aching, burning feeling that swells inside her stomach? Or is pain the odd, dazed feeling one has after a fight, the one she's experienced countless times? She likes to believe that it is the latter, but in a rush of thoughts and confusion, she no longer has a definition for it.

She sighs, her mind swimming with questions and her being heavy with broken promises—promises that she made to herself.

* * *

She's alone now, and she knows that it's been that way for a while. She likes to flatter herself and think that, once, she had had friends…friends who would listen to her and comfort her.

But she's trying her best to stay in reality now, so she really is alone and it has been that way, not for a while, but forever. There are no such things as friends in reality, and in the midst of it all, her fantasies of friendship and love keep on taunting her, though she refuses to give in. And with each day, she feels her fantasies growing stronger, yet she can also feel herself drifting away from them.

Fear is something she thinks about often, unlike pain. Many times she associates it with the looks of loathing that many people gave her, but never did she connect it with the looks of deep respect her companions once gave her. She could see the resemblance now, when it mattered the least.

It isn't enough for her to simply wish, though she does that often enough—she wishes for someone to care, and she wishes for someone to care _about_. It doesn't matter who, at this point, as long as she has somebody. She feels that her wishes will come true, eventually, if she gives them time. But she's given them time, enough time to drive anyone mad, and still no wishes are granted.

She thinks about this before she sleeps, and she is merely a figure with fire for hair and hurt for a heart, alone with only her musings and nightmares.

* * *

Sometimes she thinks about the outside world, the one that contains both her fantasies and the reality that she refuses to embrace. And then she is reminded, brashly, that she will never fit in, probably because of the lost, distraught look that she paints onto herself.

"Why me?" she whispers, eyes wet with the tears she no longer holds back.

Suddenly a torrent of emotions rages through her, though they come and go so fast that she can't exactly place them. They all feel familiar, though; all except that one, nagging feeling that she can never seem to place.

Pain.

* * *

It is raining—no, pouring—when she decides to finally leave her bedroom to look at the real world.

Her face is flushed, contrary to its usually dreary appearance. The water makes her hair darker, and as the raindrops paint her face, she decides that the weather is rather fitting. In her fantasies, there is constant sunshine, so she supposes that this is a way of telling her to wake up and just forget it all.

She knows that no matter how hard she tries, she will never forget any of it. So she doesn't try, not at all.

It's raining harder now, and her clothes are sticking to her frame and she is soaked to the bone, though she doesn't want to go inside. The rain feels refreshing on what exposed skin is there, and she refuses to let it end just yet.

She is walking near Times Square now, though how she got so far is a mystery. Faintly, she remembers taking a bus to get into the city, but aside from that it is all a blur.

She watches the wet cement move under her feet, her brow furrowed in thought. She decides that, no matter how much she aches, she will not forget anything. Her memories make her who she is, she thinks. It's a wise enough saying, and she applies it, now that she can.

A ghost of a smile lingers on her lips, which are dotted with rain. Tenderly, she brushes a strand of wet hair away from her face and slows her pace to a sort of stroll, suddenly feeling a type of…satisfaction. It is not happiness—she knows that much. It's the simple, adequate feeling that she's accomplished something, and that something is a realization that she is human like anyone else, and humans need memories to define them. It doesn't matter if those memories are upsetting or disturbing. All that matters is that she _is_ human and she has the proof.

Another feeling flutters into her chest, and she accepts it warmly, although she doesn't entirely know why it has come to her—hope.

She finally has the hope to find happiness, she guesses, and that is that. It's a good feeling, making her toes tingle and sending a kind of warmth throughout her body, and that's all that matters to her. She feels good for the first time in a while.

Suddenly all feelings are cut off, replaced by surprise. She realizes that she has hit something, and, blinking, she returns herself to her surroundings.

She has bumped into a man, and with a quick movement of her eyes she determines that he is definitely familiar. When he looks up she looks back down to the cement, afraid of what he might think of what he sees in her eyes.

"Oh, sorry," he says gently. His voice is filled with something like concern, she realizes.

"It's okay," she mumbles, bringing her eyes up to meet his, expecting them to be full of mockery and false concern and—

—_the ocean_.

She blinks, trying to block all thoughts from entering her mind. She can already feel her heart getting heavier, and she feels unintentional rage beginning to pour from her veins. Trying to stop it is not helping; every time she looks at his face, his eyes bring back some of the most bittersweet memories she can think of.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his brow furrowed and his expression concerned, probably because she doesn't say anything else, instead too caught up in her own thoughts.

Finally, she seems to come back down to Earth. "Uh—yeah, I'm fine." She can't force herself to say any more. The words are stuck in her throat, and all she can do is stare at the eyes that once made her feel so giddy—the eyes that now made her feel different, conflicting emotions that she refuses to make sense of.

She is vaguely aware of the rain hitting her reddening cheeks with force, but otherwise she is completely, utterly absorbed in her own mindless ramblings. Many of the things swarming in her head don't make sense, but the only coherent question just brings about more absurd thoughts.

_Is it him?_

The first thing that pops up into her brain is simple: _No_.

But then that is followed by other thoughts, most of them going along the lines of _what if_.

They are both silent for a long time, and everything around her is a blur. Even he is becoming hazy in her vision, and she struggles to stay completely alert.

Finally, he blurts out a question, as if he can't stop himself. "Who are you?" Immediately a light pink tints his cheeks, and he seems as if he is trying to figure out why he is acting like this.

"I'm Nancy," she says, tilting her head to the side and trying to guess what is going on in his mind.

His eyes widen, and Nancy feels her heart drop—she didn't even know it had lifted. _Would he run away?_ But no—they weren't little kids anymore.

His eyes meet hers, and she feels another torrent of jumbled thoughts hit her mind. "I'm Percy," he says. He isn't shy, she can tell, but he does sound embarrassed. She doesn't want to know why. All that matters now is not that good feeling in her heart, but the fact that he is here, in front of her, and he is not running away or fighting with her.

There is a pregnant silence, fed by the fact that they are both too caught up in their own thoughts to say anything. The only sounds they hear are the storm of raindrops on pavement.

It is Percy that shatters the calm.

"It's raining," he blurts out.

To both of their surprise, she rolls her eyes and smirks. "Well, no duh."

He grins. "I was, uh, wondering if you needed a ride home."

She smiles now, a simple action that lights up her eyes. It feels good to smile, she decides.

"Yeah, that would be nice."

He points to a silver car that is parked a little farther down the road, from the way she came. "There it is," he says, and she gets the feeling that he's only saying it because there's nothing else to say.

Silently, they walk over to the car, though she is worrying what he might think if she got his seats stained. She doesn't want to make a bad impression, not now.

Another word doesn't slip past her lips the entire ride back, unless she is giving him directions. As she climbs up the porch steps, she clutches the paper in her hand tightly. She is still wondering why he had given her his phone number, but she accepts it nonetheless. She hears the creak of gravel under tires as he drives away, and when she looks back, he is nowhere in sight.

She sighs, her muscles relaxing, as she mulls over the situation. She has that bubbly feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it is similar to the one she had had in seventh grade, yet different on so many levels. Her body is tingling and her face feels warm, but she doesn't want to know why.

She refuses to believe it is love, simply because love isn't real. Those who she had supposedly _loved_ are all gone from her life now, so who's to say Percy will be different? He had already left her once, and she knows that no matter how much she detests it, there is nothing stopping him from doing the same once more.

* * *

It is a warm summer afternoon when she finally reaches a conclusion.

Even as they sit side-by-side and sip from cans of Diet Coke that is much too warm, she can't calm the twisting feeling that has been appearing more and more in her gut.

She realizes then that there is nothing better than what she is feeling—the warmth, the content, the universal bliss. And it doesn't matter if he wants her or not, because _she_ wants _him,_ and nothing will take that away from her. They can be best friends, or lovers, or anything in between, as long as she can be with him. She knows it's greedy, but she's given too much to let go now.

Somehow, her hand finds his, and though he stiffens, he does not pull back. A smile pulls at her lips, and she leans back in her chair a little bit. She cannot find the courage to say it aloud, but she's thinking it, and she knows that it's a deadly curse, and she shouldn't be condemning both of them to it, yet she can't help it.

_I love you._

There is no response from him, and if he were thinking the same thing, he says nothing, cursing them both to an eternal silence.

* * *

_~Fin

* * *

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**A/N:**_ Bittersweet ending, methinks. Cheesy…fluffy…hm. I was trying to kinda avoid that, but…whatever.  
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